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PS 3537 
■T14 W3 
1917 

Copy 1 



WAR POEMS 




WENDELL PHILLIPS STAFFORD 



WA R POEMS 



BY 
WENDELL PHILLIPS STAFFORD 

n 



THESE POEMS, OF TIMELY INTEREST AS AMERICA IS ENTER- 
ING THE GREAT WAR FOR FREEDOM AND DEMOCRACY, ARE 
PUBLISHED AND SOLD, FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE RED 
CROSS, BY ARTHUR F. STONE OF ST. JOHNSBUBY, VT. 
PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS 



^i' 



60 5163 

FEB 17 1941 



7535-37 

Jin 



MY COUNTRY 

MY country! my country! my country! 
They say thou art craven and weak; 
Thou wilt leave the brave sword in thy scabbard. 

And turn to the smiter thy cheek; 
Thou wilt count the bright coin in thy coffer, 

Thou wilt garner the gold of thy grain, 

Thou wilt look on the death of thy children 

Untouched by the wrong or the pain! 

My country ! my country ! my country ! 

They say thou art willing to stand 
And see the last battle of freedom 

Lost, lost for the lack of thy hand ! 
Thou wilt hear the far roll of the cannon. 

Thou wilt see the dim smoke and the stain, 
Thou wilt gird up thy star-robes about thee. 

And turn to thy traffic again. 

My country! my country! my country! 

They lie that will say of thee so ! 
The stars that have led thee shall lead thee — 

The hours of His Judgment they know ! 
Thy feet will be swift on His pathway. 

Though the grapes of His wrath should be red ; 
Thou wilt leap to His trumpet, my country, 

With the might of thy quick and thy dead ! 



My country ! my country ! my country ! 

There is never a leaf that will fade, 
There is never a flower that will wither, 

In the garland thy fingers will braid! 
Their praise will be blown from the mountain, 

Their song will be sung by the sea ! 
Immortal, immortal, my country. 

The sons that shall perish for thee! 

September, 1915 



PAX NOBISCUM! 

IN the hourglass of justice how slowly the sand of 
her patience has run ! 
Now the last little grain has gone down and she stands 

with her sword in the sun. 
She has said to the lie and the murder that prowl in the 

paths of the sea, 
"If you meet with the least of my children, doubt not 

you are meeting with me." 
She has put on her robe for the battle, the star-flashing 

blue of the night. 
The red that, alas ! will be redder and the white that 

shall still be as white. 
She has heard from her far-off Sierras her war bird's 

re-echoing scream 
O'er the mighty Amen of her prairies. ... I woke, it 

was only a dream. 

New York Tribune, March, 1917 



AMERICA RESURGENT 

SHE is risen from the dead ! 
Loose the tongue and lift the head; 
Let the sons of light rejoice! 
She has heard the challenge clear; 
She has answered, "I am here" ; 

She has made the stainless choice. 

Bound with iron and with gold, 
But her limbs they could not hold 

When the word of words was spoken; 
Freedom calls — 
The prison walls 

Tumble, and the bolts are broken! 

Hail her ! she is ours again — 
Hope and heart of harassed men 

And the tyrants' doom and terror. 
Send abroad the old alarms; 
Call to arms, to arms, to arms 

Hands of doubt and feet of error! 

Cheer her ! she is free at last, 
With her back upon the past. 

With her feet upon the bars. 
Hosts of freedom sorely prest, 
Lo, a light is in the west 

And a helmet full of stars ! 

Washington Star, April, 1917 



AMERICA TO HER ALLIES 

FREE lands beyond the water, 
To you a song I send, — 
A song to men from the lover of men, 
To friends the faith of a friend. 

Hail now to Holy Russia ! 

Holy in more than name, 
Holy as man is holy 

And she has owned his claim. 

Hail, beautiful Italia, 

The spirit's clime and home! 
Glory above the Caesars' fall 

On free, fraternal Rome! 

Hail, France, whose bloody travail 
Has brought again to birth 

The soul that made the Marseillaise 
The trumpet of the earth ! 

Take blood for blood, O gallant France,- 

Full measure for our debt ! 
Reap, till the golden bins run o'er, 

The sowing of Fayette ! 

Hail the stout hearts of Flanders 
That to their sand-dunes cling! 

And hail to him, on his realm's last rim. 
The king who is a king! 



Hail to the starry banner 

Above Westminster walls, 
And her anthem, rolled with the prayers of old 

Through the arches of St. Paul's ! 

The candles on the altar 

With a brighter flame shall burn 
As the hearts of the sundered millions 

To the ancient ties return. 

Fight on, free lands, for freedom! 

Freedom's in every blow. 
The freedom we bear they too will share 

Against whose gates we go. 

For the crowned and cruel liar 

In the sun there is no room; 

And our hands are charged with thunder. 
And our feet are shod with doom. 

New York Tribune, April 29, 1917 



AMERICAN BATTLE HYMN 

1917 

Tune, Maryland 

AMERICA, America, 
My sweetheart land America ! 
To thee they cry who sink with wrong; 
For thee they faint who battle long; 
Put on thy strength, O thou most strong, 
America, America ! 

America, America, 
My sweetheart land America ! 
Beneath the battle's swelling girth 
The future struggles to its birth — 
The liberty of all the earth, 
America, America! 

America, America, 

My sweetheart land America ! 

Wilt thou not hear, wilt thou not wake? 

The sword of all thy battles take. 

And thy star-streaming banner shake, 

America, America! 

America, America, 

My sweetheart land America! 

Go on, go on to victory ! 

The stars have made their plight with thee; 

Thy dead will rise and fight with thee, 

America, America ! 



THE UPRISING 

WE are coming, we are coming, 
Hear the world-wide host assemble. 
We are coming, we are coming, 
Let the damned despots tremble. 
We are coming, we are coming. 
Let them make the shackles faster; 
We are coming, we are coming, 
We that have no slave or master. 
We are coming, we are coming, 
Blood must buy the future's blessing; 
All the wrongs of all the ages 
Stride with us to their redressing. 
We are coming, we are coming, 
'Tis the day of signs and wonders, 
In our hands the leashed lightnings, 
At our feet the fawning thunders. 
We the people, we the people. 
We the humble and the human, 
We are coming, we are coming. 
Ye that torture child and woman. 
Ye that give to death the guiltless, 
Ye that shuffle truth and treason. 
Ye whose fingers foul the holies. 
Ye that triumph for a season. 
We are coming, we are coming. 
And the tender skies upbraid us 
Till we sweep ye in the furnace 
Of the hell that ye have made us. 
We are coming, we are coming. 
We are coming, we are coming. . . . 

Washington Post, June 30, 1917 



PASSING MOUNT VERNON 

THE slowing speed — the ship-bell's toll — 
The plain white porch outstanding clearly- 
The sloping lawn — the wooded knoll 

Within whose shade he lies austerely — 

So on we pass. How peacefully 

The Pater Patriae reposes, 
With fresh returns of fleur-de-lis 

And tribute late of British roses ! 

Today his Roman mask must wear 

A smile that might be called complacent: 

England and France, a loving pair, 
Before his modest tomb obeisant! 

But still he sleeps, unroused by wrong, 
Unmoved amid a world's commotion. 

While his old river glides along 

To where his war birds breast the ocean. 

Yet is it true to say he sleeps.'' 

For still his ghost, august and splendid. 
Its march around our border keeps; 

And by his faith are we defended. 

To us his voice is speaking clear, 

And sounds across the seas in thunder; 

And 'tis the hand that crumbles here 

Which yet shall cleave the thrones asunder. 

Washington Post, July 12, 1917 



SIGNUM SALUTAMUS 

GLORY, old glory, dear flag of our fathers, 
Emblem of all we would leave to our sons. 
Lifting the sign of thy true constellation 

Where the mad trail of the meteor runs, 
Holding the light of the stars in their stillness 
Over the fury and flare of the guns ! 

Glory, old glory, fly on with thy message! 

Thine is the language the slave understands. 
Children will kneel to thee, mothers will bless thee. 

Maidens will meet thee with flowers in their hands. 
There will be fear in the tents of the tyrants : 

There will be joy in the desolate lands. 

Glory, old glory, how white is thy vesture — 
White as the snow till it touches the sod ! 

Glory, old glory, how red is thy raiment. 

Even as His who the winepress hath trod ! 

Glory, old glory, how blue is thy buckler. 

Blazoned with fires of the splendor of God! 

Glory, old glory, thy warp in its weaving 

Was woofed with the dreams of a day that will be. 

Glory, old glory, the gale in thy halyards 

Is humming the song of a world that is free. 

All we have lived for and all we will die for. 
Glory, old glory, go onward with thee! 



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WHO IS THIS? 

HO is this that comes from Edom with his gar- 
ments glory-dyed. 
With the lamb upon his shoulder and the lion in his 

stride? 
'Tis the Son of Man returning, who of old was crucified. 

Wherefore stained is thine apparel, and thy raiment 

splashed with red? 
I have sprinkled all my raiment from the feet unto the 

head. 
'Tis the day of my redemption. 'Tis the blood that 

I have shed. 

When I looked there was no helper, none beside me to 

uphold. 
Then my own arm brought salvation, and my fury made 

me bold, 
And I trod them in my anger — in the dust their pride 

is rolled. 

Thou — but thou art meeJc and lowly, and thyself thou 

couldst not save. 
Suffering and not avenging, thou hast taught us to be 

brave. 
Lord, in love, and not in anger, thou didst burst the 

guarded grave. 



Ye were overcharged with surfeit; ye were drunk with 

other care; 
And the day whereof I warned you came upon you 

unaware : 
Like a partridge in the cover, earth is caught within 

the snare. 

There shall be distress of nations till your sins have 

reached the sum, 
Till the lofty looks are humbled and the thunder-mouths 

are dumb. 
It was in the cloud, I promised, that the Son of Man 

should come. 

They that draw the sword against me, they shall perish 

by the sword: 
I will turn and overturn them till their sceptre is 

abhorred : 
Ye shall look and shall not find them — God alone shall 

be the Lord. 

Have ye heard the children crying? Have ye reckoned 

up the score? 
Have ye counted off the ages till the wrong shall be no 

more? 
I saw Satan fall like lightning — heard the heavens 

behind him roar. 

It is I, as by the signals of my coming ye should know: 
He hath set on high the humble and hath brought the 

mighty low. 
Ye have heard the word of Mary. Even so. It shall 

be so. 



INVOCATION 

OTHOU whose equal purpose runs 
In drops of rain or streams of suns, 
And with a soft compulsion rolls 
The green earth on her snowy poles; 
O Thou who keepest in the ken 
The times of flowers, the dooms of men. 
Stretch out a mighty wing above — 
Be tender to the land we love ! 

If all the huddlers from the storm 

Have found her hearthstone wide and warm; 

If she has made men free and glad. 

Sharing, with all, the good she had; 

If she has blown the very dust 

From her bright balance to be just, 

Oh, spread a mighty wing above — 

Be tender to the land we love ! 

When in the dark eternal tower 
The star-clock strikes her trial hour. 
And for her help no more avail 
Her sea-blue shield, her mountain mail. 
But sweeping wide, from Gulf to Lakes, 
The battle on her forehead breaks. 
Throw Thou a thunderous wing above — 
Be lightning for the land we love ! 

Atlantic Monthly 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 928 204 1 



